20. Comfort: “You’re not alone” | “Give them time” | Loyalty
EMOTIONAL HURT
Loss
21. Hurt: Frustrated ambition | Something lost permanently | Missing out
22. Comfort: Adjusted expectations | There no matter what | New paths
Autonomy
23. Hurt: “I know what’s best for you” | Defiance | “My body’s not mine”
24. Comfort: “It’s your decision” | Leadership | At home in their body
Psychological Effects
25. Hurt: In a bad mood | Out of energy | At the end of their rope
26. Comfort: Moral support | “You can rest now” | “Give them space”
Stoicism
27. Hurt: Hiding a condition | Impossible standards | “I’m used to it”
28. Comfort: Explicit support | Opening up | “I won’t leave you”
Intimacy
29. Hurt: Miscommunication | Trust issues | Fear of rejection
30. Comfort: Adapting intimacy | Let it all out | Kiss (or more) and make up
Rules below the cut:
This event will be centered on characters with disabilities and chronic conditions, both visible (ex, paraplegia; limb differences) and invisible (ex, migraines; CFS). For writing to qualify, please have one or more disabled/chronically ill characters as the focus of your story, rather than a side character/cameo in a story about abled characters. Prompts are meant to facilitate stories about disability and disabled characters in the genres of hurt/comfort and whump (also known as hurt-no-comfort).
"Disability" can have a broad definition, and many conditions can be disabling. The moderator will not be filtering or rejecting submissions based on what medical conditions "count"; the only parameter is that the central character lives with a chronic condition of some type which is disabling for them in some way. Disabililties which come about in a fantasy or sci-fi setting are welcome as long as they are portrayed as being disabling in some way which is anaolgous (eg, a permanent problem caused by magic, or vampirism as a fantasy-disability).
Please do not TAG your posts/links with the names of disabilities you are writing about, or with “disability” or “chronic illness”, as those tags are used by disabled folks to talk about our RL disabilities and in the past there have been issues with writers inadvertently clogging those tags with fiction/writing advice.
Please DO tag your posts and links #disabledwhc2025 and, in a second tag, the day (eg, #day 1: established disability) so the mod can find and reblog them to the blog!
Original work and fanfic are both welcome; anything goes in terms of settings and genres (fantasy, sci-fi) as long as it’s h/c or whump.
You do not have to write for every prompt (that’s why there’s a mix of hurt and comfort!) or every day to be featured. If you don’t have time for 30 days, do as many as you feel like. If you only write either H/C or Whump, you can do a 15-day challenge, reinterpret the hurt prompts to include comfort, and/or find a whumpy spin on the comfort prompts.
If you write prompts out of order please still tag which day you are writing for and the title of that prompt set. So if you decide to post the prompt “frustrated ambition” from the set “Loss”, which is day 21, on April 3, please still tag your April 3 post “day 21: loss”.
There are no restrictions on what content can be posted, but please use content notes for the following topics: "Rape/noncon" "Underage" "Graphic Depictions of Violence" (ie gore), and "Major Character Death" before the start of your piece. You can also use the warning "Creator Chose Not to Use Content Warnings" if you do not want to spoil fic. Please use a "read more" for these pieces.
Please tag any NSFT works (explicit sexual content) as "NSFT". Please use a "read more" for these pieces.
Fandom: The Owl House
Summary: Hunter has chronic pain post-possession. He doesn't tell anyone
Word Count: 2.3k
Warnings: no archive warnings apply, references to child abuse
(also on AO3)
Written for the Disabled Whump & Hurt Comfort 2025 Event. Prompt list here.
Hunter was used to pain.
He was used to broken bones and bruised ribs. He was used to split lips and twisted ankles. He was used to stress headaches and bloodied knuckles. He was used to gritting his teeth and dealing with it, because the only alternative was more pain.
He was not used to his skin being on fire.
Scars itched—Hunter knew that very well. Sometimes they itched so bad they hurt. And sometimes they just hurt, full stop.
The scars he’d gotten from the possession were different. They burnt. Burnt through his selkidomus skin, burnt past his flesh and the muscles, burnt straight through until the fire reached his bones, and burnt them too.
Hunter had never been burnt before. The boiling rain was just a hot shower, the boiling sea a warm bath. His selkidomus skin protected him. He wished it didn’t. Maybe then, he’d be used to that specific brand of pain.
As it was, he could barely focus enough to work. And there was work to be done.
The Isles needed to be rebuilt. A refugee town was being constructed to house the former inhabitants of the Left Arm. Governmental and religious systems were being overhauled. Giant, sparkly stars stuck out the sides of buildings. Roads were unusable. Rubble needed clearing. Everyone needed to help. So, Hunter gritted his teeth, and helped however he could.
This worried his friends to a frankly confusing degree, since he hadn’t told anyone that the scars hurt. Apparently they thought he was running from his grief for Flapjack.
Which Hunter wasn’t. He was just doing whatever he could to make up for all the hurt he’d caused as the Golden Guard—all the witches he’d arrested, all the lives he’d ruined, all the palismen he’d killed—in whatever way he could. And would continue to do so until the day he died. Because he could never make up for that much hurt. So what if that meant he threw up in bushes because the pain made him nauseous? So what if he fell asleep crying most nights because another day was almost more than he could take? So what if he wanted to rip out his lungs to stop them from burning with every breath? He wasn’t dead, which was more than he could say for Flapjack.
He told his friends that being productive helped him relax. They accepted this with minimal ’whenever-you’re-ready-to-talk-about-what’s-really-happening,-we’re-here-to-listen’-ing. Which was sweet but totally unnecessary because he was fine.
***
Moving his eyelids hurt. Which did not bode well for the rest of the day.
Hunter gritted his teeth—which also hurt—and sat up.
His head span. His throat went dry. He was shivering and drenched in sweat, which was just gross.
He focused on the grossness instead of how his skin was pulsing like some sort of terrible heartbeat, as he crawled out of bed, onto the floor, and managed the thirty feet between his bed and the shower. He sat in the water with his pyjamas on and let his thoughts drown.
He’d been in there for too long before crawling out. He lay on Darius’s ridiculously fluffy bathmat for too long before sitting up. He’d been sitting up too long before he peeled off his wet clothes. He’d been sitting there, naked, for too long before he snatched his towel off the hook. He sat there with his towel for too long before drying himself off, one limb at a time, taking too long for each one.
He crawled back into his bedroom slowly, until he finally reached the standing mirror Darius had gotten him.
He lay there in front of it for a while, breathing, and ignored the tears sliding down his cheeks. They were just an involuntary pain response, like gasping for breath after getting winded. Nothing more.
His pentagram was lying next to his right arm. With much effort, Hunter reached over and tapped the screen, causing it to light up.
8:42. A few months ago, he’d have finished yesterday’s paperwork, completed a patrol, dealt with the paperwork that Lilith or Kikimora had let slide through the cracks, reported to Belos, and headed off on whatever his job was for the day by now.
He’d have been beaten bloody for being this late.
That thought gave him enough energy to sit up and face the mirror.
He didn’t wipe away the tears running down his cheeks. Instead, he lifted his hands and covered his face, pretending his fingers were a mask.
Hunter was done for the day. Hunter couldn’t function with the pain. So it was the Golden Guard’s turn.
He stood up, wiping the tears from his eyes, and got dressed. It was too warm for a hoodie, but he grabbed one anyway. He wanted to hide as much of his skin as he could—it had gone pale.
He brushed his hair into something presentable, washed his face, and headed downstairs.
Darius was sitting at the kitchen counter, eating cereal and drinking tea when Hunter walked in. “Good morning, Little Prince.”
“Morning,” Hunter said, grabbing a granola bar. He was pretty sure he’d throw up anything heavier. He headed for the door.
“Ah, Hunter, wait,” Darius called. Hunter turned around. Darius was half-standing. “Where are you going?”
Well. That was a stupid question. “To work,” Hunter answered. Like he’d been doing every day for the past three weeks.
“…You don’t have a job anymore.” Darius it slowly, gently. With that worry in his eye that everyone got around Hunter.
Hunter was getting sick of it. “I know that. I’m working to rebuild the Isles. Like everyone else.” Except for the Clawthornes. They were figuring out the Collector’s portal door instructions.
Darius pursed his lips. “Why don’t you stay home today, hm? Get some rest.”
Hunter reminded himself that Darius had graciously allowed him into his house, and that Hunter needed to be respectful and grateful. And that yelling at him for daring to imply that Hunter would ever have a home again would not be respectful or grateful.
“I got up at five AM every day in the Emperor’s Coven,” he said instead. “I’m resting plenty.” This was true and not changed by the fact that everything took more energy than it used to.
Darius sighed, and stood up. Hunter wondered if he’d used up all the grace that he’d gotten these past few months and was about to be punished. He also wondered if being so numb about that idea was normal.
“At least let me fly you there,” Darius said instead of whatever Hunter thought was going to happen. He strode past Hunter, summoning his staff as he did. “Where are you headed today?”
“Uh, the third-left rib,” Hunter said, trailing after him. “The message board said they need volunteers to clear the stars.”
“I wish that child had taken the stars with him,” Darius said, “it would’ve saved everyone a lot of trouble.”
“I wish they’d fixed the Titan’s arm,” Hunter grumbled. At the words, his left arm gave a twinge. Hunter quickly thought about something else, before all the pain could come rushing back.
“Didn’t he say his magic didn’t work on Titans?” Darius opening the front door.
The Owl Lady was standing there, one arm raised like she was about to knock. “Heya, Darius.” She glanced at Hunter. “Kid.”
Darius froze. “I forgot the meeting.”
“You sure did,” Eda said cheerfully. “Raine’s been calling me all morning.”
“What meeting?” Hunter asked.
“Raine’s talking with some people they trust about how to fix the political system,” Eda explained, “and Darius was meant to be there a half an hour ago.”
How could Darius forget something like that? If Hunter had been invited, it’d be all he could think about. “I can walk,” he said to Darius.
Darius looked torn. “I—if you’re sure—”
“I can drop him off,” Eda said, lowering her staff for Hunter. “Where you headed?”
“The third left rib,” Hunter said, getting on.
“Please be careful with my ward,” Darius said, getting on his own staff. “Apparently this is the longest he’s gone without breaking a bone and I would like to extend that streak.”
“You worry too much,” Eda said, before telling Hunter to ’hold on tight’ and taking off.
Eda flew at a leisurely, steady pace, which was somewhat disappointing to Hunter, but made holding on easier. He didn’t have to grip the staff too tightly, which would aggravate the scars around his fingers and make them pulse and burn and—
“How’s Lilith doing?” Hunter asked to distract himself.
“Eh, okay,” Eda answered, “she’s heading to the meeting too, so she felt very important about that. How’re you doing, living with that old fart?”
“Isn’t he younger than you?”
“Nah, he’s way older. Like, a whole year older,” Eda said. “The curse aged me a bit—I still look hot though.”
Hunter didn’t comment.
“What are you doing out by the ribs anyway?” Eda asked.
“I’m helping remove stars.”
“Oh yeah, those things are a real pain in the…” Eda fell silent.
“…you can say ass,” Hunter said after a bit. “I’m sixteen.”
“What? Oh, I know that kid,” Eda continued, “I was just wondering how you remove the stars without any magic?”
Hunter felt himself bristling. “I’m not useless. I just pull them out.” It took longer than it would for someone else, but that didn’t matter. It still helped. It was still something.
“Easy kid, I didn’t say you were,” Eda continued. “Just…Raine’s been dealing with some real bad pain ever since…well, ever since Belos possessed them. I assumed you were too.”
“Nope,” Hunter said too fast, “no, I’m completely fine.”
“…Right,” Eda said after a moment. “So the work isn’t exacerbating any injuries?”
“I’m fine,” Hunter continued, perhaps a little desperately. “Maybe it affected me differently because I’m—I’m young.”
Eda nodded in front of him, in a slow, thoughtful way. “Maybe.”
They rode in silence for the rest of the trip.
Eda landed carefully and Hunter scrambled off the staff. “Thanks for ride,” he said, before turning around and heading for the nearest star. He needed to get away from her before she figured him out even more.
“Wait.” Eda flew in front of him. “Here.” She was holding a tiny vial of glowing blue liquid.
Hunter frowned. “What’s this?”
“My hair’s full,” Eda said with a shrug, “so I figured you could hold onto this for me. As payment for the ride.”
Hunter glanced between her and the vial. “Sure…” he said, taking it slowly, like maybe it would blow him up. “What is it?”
Eda gave him a look that was definitely meant to say something but Hunter wasn’t sure what. He returned it with his natural confused expression. Eda’s look morphed into something horrified. “Have you never seen a healing vial before?”
Hunter shook his head.
Eda stared at him for a long moment. “Any chance that you’ve never been in pain before?”
Hunter snorted (which made his nose feel like he’d shoved it in burning embers but whatever).
Eda sucked a breath through her teeth, gaze dropping to the side. “Titan, that is…” she shook her head, looking back at him. “It helps with pain. You drink a little when you have a headache, or burnt your finger, or whatever. Don’t drink it all at once, you gotta take little sips. It can make you kinda sleepy, so watch out for that.”
Hunter stared at the liquid. “This,” he said slowly, hands trembling around the vial, “this makes pain go away?”
“Not go away,” Eda said, “more like reduces it. Dulls it.”
Hunter felt tears well up in his eyes. “You’re—” he swallowed, throat stinging in protest. “You’re giving this to me?”
“Yeah. This vial cost me two snails,” Eda said. “They’re—look, kid, there’s no reason you shouldn’t have been taking these whenever you got injured, alright?”
Hunter couldn’t believe these had always been around. “Okay.” His voice was wobbly. “Thank you.”
“No problem,” Eda said, smiling awkwardly. “I’m going to head home now—unless you’re in pain and want a ride?”
“No,” Hunter said quickly, wiping his eyes, “no, I’m fine.”
“Uh-huh,” Eda said dubiously. “You know, I’ve been in a bit of pain ever since I got cursed, back when I was about your age. And I pretty much ruined my life trying to hide it from the people who loved me.”
Hunter rolled his eyes, ignoring the ache in his left shoulder. “I’m not hiding anything.”
“It’s embarrassing,” Eda continued like he hadn’t spoken, “getting help with stuff other people can do alone. It can feel shameful. But the people who love you want to help. They want to take care of you. They’d rather share the burden—the pain—than have you go it alone.” Eda’s lips quirked into a smile. “You’ve got a lot of people who love you, kiddo. Don’t forget that.”
“I’m fine,” he insisted, not meeting her eye.
“I know. Call me if you want a ride,” Eda said, then took off into the air.
Hunter waited until she was out of sight, then opened the vial and sipped it. The effect was much quicker than the painkillers Mrs Noceda had given him. The pounding in his head lessened and pulsing pain in his skin dulled. He sighed in relief, eyes drifting closed for a moment.
Then he turned around, and headed for the nearest star. He had work to do.
Fandom: One Piece
Summary: Romance Dawn, but make the Strawhats disabled.
(also on AO3)
A/N: Title from "Cure for Me" by Aurora. Thank you to FabHawk for beta-reading and for brainstorming help!
Before everything, before anyone outside of Foosha Village had heard the name Luffy, Monkey D. Dragon’s son spent his time running through the jungle with two boys he calls brothers. His joints popped and ached sometimes, but Ace passed out regularly and Sabo sometimes had headaches so bad he couldn’t move. It was just how things were.
I was always bendy, even before I ate my Devil Fruit , he told his prospective first mate.
And Zoro, who could cut a fly in half with his blade but couldn't seem to read a map, no matter how long he tried, looked at Luffy and saw something familiar.
They met a thief in their travels, a beautiful woman with a bulky prosthetic attached to her shoulder. She twirled her staff in her other hand and wore her coat so that the harness around her torso was perfectly visible but the swirling symbol embossed into the prosthetic’s upper arm was obscured.
I”m hardly the first sailor to be short a limb, she laughed.
At Syrup Village, they met a boy so cheerful that it was easy to believe him, even when you could see his hands shaking. Nami and Kaya spent hours talking about how to push through fatigue, and then even more hours talking about the shenanigans their friends got up to.
When they left, Usopp followed them, filled with almost enough excitement to quiet the fear.
I can be a brave warrior of the sea, even like this, right ? He asked, and his voice barely even shook.
The floating restaurant was supposed to be a detour, nothing more. But then Luffy met the waiter whose sharp tongue didn't match his flat expression, and moved getting a cook up his list of priorities. Sanji was good in a fight, and he was trustworthy, even if sometimes the faces he made were confusing.
A chef doesn’t need to smile, or frown, or whatever; they just need to cook, and I’m the best damn cook in the East Blue, Sanji told him.
Then, Nami stole the Going Merry .
Luffy could see the others getting frustrated with him for not taking it seriously enough, but he wasn’t going to change his mind. Nami had betrayed them, yes, but he didn’t believe she was doing it just for fun.
And sure enough, they learned about Arlong and the Fishman Pirates. And Luffy understood, because if anyone tried to take his freedom the way theirs had been taken, he would want to destroy everything too. But Nami didn’t do anything to them, and Luffy’d had more than enough of the people he cared for being looked down on.
Arlong sneered down at them--Zoro in his bandages, Luffy with braces on his elbows and fingers, Usopp and his quivering hands, and Sanji's expressionless face.
Luffy knew what they saw, because it was just what the people in Grey Terminal saw when they looked at him and his brothers. They were outliers that didn’t fit into their ideas of what kids were like. Now, he and his crew were people who didn't look like what Arlong thought of when he imagined humans.
Luffy, being Luffy, could never have a normal crew. He wouldn't want one.
He wanted back those lazy afternoons, bobbing along on the waves. Usopp singing off key because it helped with his nerves and Nami drowsing next to the wheel with her prosthetic on the deck beside her.
Written for the Disabled Whump & Hurt Comfort 2025 Event. Prompt list here.
--
Francis Crawford awoke and was dazzled. He could feel the soft sheets beneath him, could smell grass and warmth and wood-smoke through the open bedroom windows, and his vision was awash with dark stars, like inverted sunlight on the water, like staring too long at a candle flame.
Another headache, then. There was already pain somewhere in the vicinity of his left eye socket. He sighed, resigned. His tongue felt thick in his mouth and his mind sluggish.
Next to him in the bed, Philippa stirred, stretched, offered him a smile half seen through the dazzle. He smiled back, fully involuntarily, unable to not smile at her despite the pain in his head. But there must have been something of a grimace in it because Philippa seemed to come more awake when she saw it.
"Francis? Are you well?"
He wasn't. And there was no use hiding it. "Ah, no. My head. I'm sorry, Yunitsa. Perhaps if I sleep a little longer."
"Hmm," she sighed, seeming both concerned at his pain and pleased at his honesty. She laid her cool palm against the side of his face. Her touch was a balm and he leaned into it making a soft contented noise in his throat.
"Rest," she told him. "Chris and I will get up to greet Richard when he arrives."
"Richard...!" The thought of his brother nearly sent Lymond tumbling to his feet. He'd forgotten the planned visit.
"Francis. Richard won't want you to hurt yourself on his account." Philippa's voice was soft but firm, assured, and while Francis might once have argued the point he had come to learn that Richard had no love for seeing him in pain. He had seen rather too much of it over the years.
"Alright," Francis sighed, turning his face into Philippa's palm again. "I'll rest."
The book isn't out yet, so I keep it to things that happened before - in this case, roughly 6 months before the start of the novel!
Prompt: Day 12 - Coming Home (Prompt list)
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
WIP Intro
Ross peeked out behind the curtain of the carriage window, watching each passing tree and counting the minutes until he would be home. Not merely a visit for the holidays or in summer, but finally, truly home. He missed his room and his books and his bed, but most of all—most of all he missed Irina.
He had worried about her since the moment he had left for school, but the last time he had been home, a few days over Summer’s Soul, she had looked worse than ever. Between hollow eyes and pale skin, he hadn’t seen her smile even once. He knew her mother was sick, and that his parents, instead of hiring more help, worked her to the bone. Only a few more months, he had promised her, then he would do anything in his power to get her out.
He needed the real world experience, he would say. He needed to stand on his own feet, he would say. He needed some help with his household tasks, and someone familiar with his needs, he would say. He needed to pay her a proper wage and make sure she got enough food and rest instead of treating her like property.
He would not say that.
When the mansion came into view, he slipped his crutch over his forearm, eager to waste as little time as possible. Only the good manners instilled in him were the reason he didn’t open the door himself the moment the carriage came to a halt but waited for the driver to do so.
The man assisted him down the two steps, and he would also take care of Ross’ luggage, so Ross walked along the path to the entrance. As every year since he had left for school, he had missed late summer, but parts of the garden were still in full bloom. Hedges were carefully trimmed, leaves raked up the moment they touched the ground. Everything always had to be spotless, ready to impress at any given moment.
Ross knew he rarely fulfilled those expectations, but perhaps this time, he could be lucky. He greeted the porter and stepped into the entrance hall, finding himself face to face with his mother.
“You’re later than expected.” She looked him up and down, but didn’t seem to be able to find something to criticize, other than his general existence, he guessed. “Refresh yourself,” she said anyway. “You will be expected for dinner.”
Ross merely inclined his head. She clearly was in a mood, and since there was a chance that anything he said could be taken as offense, it was better not to speak at all. When the door opened behind him and the driver dragged his luggage inside, Ross showed him the way up the stairs and into his room.
His room! He told the driver where to put his bags, and the moment the man closed the door behind him, Ross let himself drop onto his bed—his huge, soft, comfortable, warm bed. He closed his eyes and inhaled deeply, taking in the smell of home.
He hadn’t exactly expected a welcome party, but the fact that no one seemed to care that he was back stung a bit. Well; he was sure Irina cared, but for all he knew, his parents had her slaving away in some hidden corner, doing the job of two people alone. The sooner he would be able to talk to them, the better.
He opened the smaller of his bags and pulled out the leather-bound folder. Perhaps, for once, he deserved a bit of goodwill. Not only had he done what they had expected of him—he had excelled at it. Graduating with honors wasn’t something to be taken for granted even among those with private tutors, a benefit he decidedly had never had. His father had hinted that after his graduation, he might consider giving his youngest son some responsibilities. Responsibilities Brad didn’t want, for sure, but Ross didn’t care. Whatever got him out of the house and let him prove that he was good for more than staying out of sight.
Slowly, carrying every object one by one, he put away his most important belongings: the folder in one drawer of his desk, his reading glasses in another, the bottle with his pills on the nightstand, and his notebook next to it. It was a good feeling reclaiming his room.
A knock on the door made him spin around with a huge grin on his face, which faltered as he realized that the rhythm had been off. While he tried to stand up straight and gather his voice, the door opened and a young woman he had never seen before entered. Whatever had happened to waiting until one was called in?
“Young mister DeWitt.” She curtsied, which was as unnecessary as it was uncomfortable. “I’m the new maid.”
Oh. So his parents had hired more help. That was nice, he guessed, and it took away his scruples as he said:
“Would you fetch Irina, please? I’m tired from the journey, and I would like some help unpacking and refreshing myself.”
He didn’t strictly need her help, but as always after the hours-long carriage ride, he was pretty sore, and if he could get her away from her chores a few hours earlier, all the better. The maid looked at him with eyes as big as saucers, and Ross forced himself to smile. It had been a while since the last time someone had been rude enough to stare at him like that, but there was no point in antagonizing the new personnel first thing after his arrival.
“I apologize,” he said, even though he wasn’t the one who had something to apologize for. “I don’t think we’ve met. I’m Ross. When I am at home, Irina is my personal maid, because she, well.” He raised his crutch a bit. “Knows what I need.”
The maid nodded hastily and was out the door as quickly as she had entered. Would have been nice to know her name, but skittish as she was, she probably didn’t think it was important to him. He would talk to her once he had settled in and make sure she knew that he wasn’t like his parents.
His parents, who expected him for dinner. He walked to his wardrobe and inspected his clothes, hoping to find something fitting for the occasion. The ones he had taken with him to school would have to be laundered or at least steamed before they would be adequate.
This time, the door opened without warning. Ross whirled around, gaze falling upon the young woman who entered. Her dark blonde hair was smooth as silk, her eyes of the same hue as his, and her lips pressed together as if they had never learned how to smile.
“Mel?” Something was off. His sister never came to him; she barely ever acknowledged him. “Why are you— Where’s Irina?”
“Our parents didn’t want to tell you while you were focusing on your finals, but that—” She broke off and cleared her throat before she added, “Irina is gone.”
Ross could only stare at her. Surely, he had understood her wrong?
“What?” he croaked. “Why?”
He hated how the sudden anxiousness made his throat tight and turned his voice into a squeal, just like he hated the expression of disgust flicking across his sister’s face.
“She killed Brad,” Mel said, in a tone that was entirely inadequate for relaying such news. “Two weeks ago. The next day, I brought her to town to be arrested. The new girl was hired to take over her duties, but our parents think it’s about time you make do without extra help.”
Arrested. The word echoed in Ross’ mind, over and over and over again. Arrested. In town, because this place barely deserved to be called a village, and there hadn’t been a prison in decades, and the next place big enough to have a judge able to deal with such things was more than an hour away.
The room around Ross blurred. Two weeks ago. She was already gone. It wouldn’t have been a trial. Not when she had killed the eldest son of the richest family in the region. No matter what her reason—and she must have had a reason, she must have—no one would have listened to her. It would have been a farce followed by an execution.
Alone. Always alone. Dragged away to face trial and conviction alone. Dragged out to be killed alone. Had she been scared? She must have been, and he hadn’t been there for her. Hadn’t been able to speak for her, to beg for her life, and now it didn’t matter what had happened. Now it was too late.
They had probably buried her in an unmarked grave by now. Under the earth, alone and cold, so cold, and he hadn’t even been able to say goodbye, hadn’t gotten a chance to tell her how much he loved her. His little Ivy. She had always been so warm and so soft and so kind, but the memory faded as his mind conjured up the image of her cold and stiff body, decaying in her lonely grave. The emptiness in his heart grew until it threatened to choke him.
A touch on his arm made him lash out, shoving the person away so hard, he slid off the bed himself. When had he sat down on it? Why couldn’t he remember? He pressed his back against the mattress, but it didn’t help against the sick feeling in his stomach.
Mumbled voices that didn’t make sense. Not enough air in the room as the walls closed in on him. He wanted to walk out the door, out the house, walk and walk and walk until he found her grave, until he could be as close to her as the earth allowed it, just so she wasn’t alone. His body didn’t even allow him to crawl back into his bed, stiff and trembling and unwilling to listen to him.
The light faded while he cried, feeling so numb, he didn’t know where his body ended and where the floor began. Cold crept through his clothes and through his skin until it settled in his very bones, but he couldn’t bring himself to move, lacking both willpower and strength to get his limbs to obey.
When pale morning light crept through the curtains, Ross stared blearily at the mattress in front of his face. His tears had long dried up, leaving his eyelids sticky and his mouth dry and fuzzy. Everything hurt. Irina would have scolded him for sitting like this the whole night before helping him up and using her warm hands to ease the pain of cramped muscles. The thought was enough to make him sob again, pressing his forehead against the mattress.
He would never hear her voice again. Never feel her touch again. She was gone and cold and alone, and he was still here and cold and alone, and he didn’t know how he was ever going to do anything but cry again.
A knock on the door. A pause. Another knock.
Ross didn’t bother to answer. Irina had always knocked in a way that was hers alone, just like so many things had been theirs alone. Their little jokes. Their shared memories. The trust between them. He had never trusted another person like he had trusted her. He never would, either.
Apparently unwilling to wait any longer, the person outside pushed the door open. It was the new maid. She was clearly uncomfortable, but apparently not enough to leave him the fuck alone. Ross tried to scowl, but he was too tired to control his face. He probably looked like shit, still wearing the clothes he had arrived in and sitting on the floor because he couldn’t scrape together the energy to get up.
“Young mister,” she said in a tone so low, it was almost a whisper. “I’m here to collect your laundry.”
Quietly, the door closed behind her. She shuffled closer, clutching the hem of her apron. In front of him, she stopped, crouching down as she extended her arm.
“Do you need—”
“Don’t. Touch,” he snapped. “Take it. Go.”
He was shaking again, the fingers of his right hand clutching the bed as he swallowed a groan. Everything hurt, his heart and his body, and while it wasn’t the woman’s fault, his broken heart didn’t care who it lashed out at. As far as he was concerned, his family had killed his one and only friend. Every possible future had included her. Never, not even once, had he considered a life without her.
“Your father…” the maid started.
Can go fuck himself, Ross wanted to say, but it was probably for the better that his rebellious tongue turned it into unintelligible noise.
“Tomorrow evening is the harvest banquet. He expects the. The usual guests?” she said in a questioning tone, obviously hoping she wouldn’t have to elaborate. “He wishes you to attend.”
It had to be a joke. Ross’ laugh turned into a sob, but he tried to keep it together, not willing to fall apart in front of this stranger.
“I’m not really supposed to, but.” Her hand hovered close, but she didn’t try to touch him. “If you need help?”
“No.” Ross’ tone was still sharp, but no longer as hostile as before. “I will be. There.” He moved his jaw from side to side. Even those muscles hurt, tense as he had been. As he still was. “My laundry. I have not yet unpacked. My bag.”
He watched her gather his clothes and retreat, and only when the door had closed behind her did he stir. Unfolding his limbs made him groan, but he needed to go to the bathroom, and he needed to take his pills. And then he needed to figure out what the fuck he was going to do.
He didn’t want to attend this dinner. If he was honest, he didn’t want to see his family at all. Fuck, how could his father still think about holding the banquet as if nothing had happened? The man didn’t give a fuck about his servants, but he had lost his son—a fact that hadn’t yet settled in Ross’ mind. He should have mourned Brad’s death, he really should have, but they had never been particularly close, and Ross knew it in his heart that this asshole had done something terrible to drive Irina to deadly violence.
No one was going to tell him though, were they? Perhaps if he was lucky. If enough wine flowed to loosen Greer’s lips. The possibility wasn’t enticing enough to make sitting through a whole dinner worth it, quiet and obedient like a slightly defective doll no one was supposed to look too closely at. But what other choice did he have? For now, he was still dependent on his family, not that the thought of getting disowned held much of a threat.
Ross groaned as he pulled himself up onto his bed, the fingers of his left hand clutched to a painful fist as he grabbed blindly at the bottle on his nightstand with his right. He would have to play along until he figured out what to do, because there was one thing he knew for sure: Irina wouldn’t have wanted him to give up.
I don't wanna use the MCD tag, because she's the second protagonist of the novel, so she's obviously not dead. Not saying she's doing well, but she's alive! 😅
Anyway, if you wanna see more of my guy(s), the book's gonna be out on May 15 :D
"lo que el agua me dio"
The Locked Tomb, Gen, T, Creator chose not to use archive warnings
Cytherea the First & Dulcinea Septimus
A conversation in an eddy of the River.
I have two other fics in progress for this month and this one just kind of appeared, experimentally, in my fic folder. For day 23/ "autonomy".
Chapters: 1/1
Fandom: ダンジョン飯 | Dungeon Meshi | Delicious in Dungeon
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Relationships: Kabru & Mithrun (Dungeon Meshi)
Characters: Kabru (Dungeon Meshi), Mithrun (Dungeon Meshi)
Additional Tags: Kabru POV, Spoilers past the anime, Hurt/Comfort, Huddling For Warmth, Set in Volume 9, Hypothermia
Summary:
Mithrun didn’t shiver, even with his bare chest in the cold air. He didn’t even get goose flesh. How much of staying warm needed you to want it? The floor felt too loose under Kabru's feet, like it could fall any time. How much of staying alive needed you to want it?
Many thanks to @coldwind-shiningstars for beta reading!
I had plans to write more fics for this event, but alas, time.
